


Harmless

by pantan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Cannibalism, Coffee Shops, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Insanity, M/M, Slow Burn, is Hannibal a Cannibal?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:54:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10043585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantan/pseuds/pantan
Summary: Will wants therapy without the therapist. Hannibal, a barista, is willing to oblige.





	1. Weeds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Literosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literosity/gifts).



Will isn’t crazy.

Fresh air and a healthy breeze is a regrettable alternative to therapy; much less expensive but ultimately, less helpful, too. Summer has ended and autumn is colder than he expects, but one worn jacket and thicker socks later, the haunting images of victims arranged in elaborate designs seems to wash away with the push of the wind. He longs for peace, yearns for solitude from his own mind, wishing and wanting reprieve for his sins.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs isn’t concerned with what Will wants.

He never walks when Will sees him. He hardly moves at all, save for the simple turn of his head and roll of his eyes as they chase him down the street. Will leaves him on the porch of his home, only to find him sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car. In the city he turns corners and winds down backroads, avoids places too crowded or sparse, and yet Hobbs is waiting at every street corner, around every bend, across every room.

The cool chill of autumn rids him of all his demons save one.

Will considers professional help as he kicks a stray stone onto the pavement of a corporate building parking lot. Garrett Jacob Hobbs makes for terrible company, but he shudders at the idea of giving someone full access to his brain. He dislikes psychiatrists – they’re too nosy. Nevermind it’s their job and their purpose is to help, he dislikes them all the same.

His phone chimes – it’s Jack. Will pauses mid-stride, deliberating, waiting. He counts the rings, one, two, three, four…

On the final ring he caves, swipes the phone open, and holds it to his ear.

“Jack.”

_“Will.”_

“I assume this isn’t a social call,” he manages to say, feigning interest in the weeds growing from the cracked sidewalk beneath his feet.

_“For once, you’re wrong. Dinner, you and me. Home cooked meal, beer, and the chance to get away from your smelly dogs.”_

He’s pleasantly surprised. “You cook?” Will asks.

There’s a pause. _“No.”_

A sociable evening with Jack Crawford sounds less boring than a microwaved TV dinner with peas as hard as stone and chicken as dry as a dusty well. As much as he enjoys his dogs, even he admits he craves human interaction. He looks up, away from the struggling weeds, and Garrett Jacob Hobbs smiles at him from a few feet away, eyes cold and white.

“See?” he whispers.

Will turns. “I’ll bring takeout. But first I’m getting coffee.”

_“If you’re in the city, I can recommend a place.”_

“Sure,” he agrees. The snap in the air feels nice, despite the ghost of his sins chasing him down.

They agree on a time and hang up, and he can’t help but glance back, to see if his companion is still present, staring him down, teeth visible behind his lips.

There’s nothing but weeds.

He turns to go.

Will isn’t crazy.


	2. To Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update with an infrequency that would shock you; if you plan to stick around regardless, I am flattered. Thank you for reading.

His expertise in Cafés is limited to his drive to drink coffee; when he craves, he’s an expert. When he sips at water instead, all he knows his how to distinguish a good sandwich from a shit sandwich.

Café Della Vittoria tucked neatly away in the backroads of bustling Baltimore is simple yet elegant, rudimentary yet fine, and the smell of roasted beans and freshly-baked quiches draws him inward. The outside is pretty, with two roman-esque pillars carved from what looks like marble, to the thin and arching roof, and the large, rounded double doors accented with panes of glass that shine in the early afternoon sunlight.

Will feels his brow rise reflexively; the café is _very_ pretty. Simple. Italian.

 _Romantic_ , he thinks. What kind of coffee shop looks so fine from the street? He doesn't quite believe that he’s at the right address, and checks his phone for Jack’s instructions, cross-referencing them with the curly and fading gold letters on the hanging wooden sign. It appears correct. As strange a place it seems, his stomach gurgles, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose.

He’s thirsty.

It will have to do.

A small and simple “open” sign hangs in one of the panes on the door. Will grasps the right brass handle and pulls, allowing himself into the café. A rush of chilled air swoops through the door from his back, ruffling the edge of his coat as the sweet and clipped sound of harpsichord rolls gently from within. Immediately, he is out of place.

Men in suits and ladies in expensive skirts and dresses litter the interior, which is fit with many creamy white sofas, round wooden tables, and spindly mahogany chairs. A young woman with dark skin stands behind the counter at the back, dressed in a black blouse with a white apron tied around her waist. She, as well as the other customers, look to the corner of the café, where the sound of the strings originates. Will follows their gaze and spies broad shoulders and steel brown hair swooped into a careful style.

The broad set of shoulders is responsible for the harpsichord but as Will steps forward to listen to the tune, the last few notes float from the instrument, and in the dead silence of the song’s end, he freezes. It feels wrong to disturb the calm. Irreverent.

Affable applause interrupts Will’s pause. Several customers make haste to praise the musician, but he ignores them and approaches the young lady at the counter.

“You've arrived too late, sir,” she says jokingly. “My boss only plays when his customers insist, and never twice in a row.”

He gives her a polite smile. “I managed to snag the end of it.”

“Maybe next time you’ll snag the beginning, too,” she laughs. “What can I get for you?”

A shiny name tag catches the light on her shirt. “Just an iced coffee, please, Simone. Twenty-four ounce.”

Simone punches the order in with thin fingers. “Can I interest you in a warm panini? They’re our special for today.”

As he is about to refuse, his eyes catch the face of Simone’s boss for the first time, and he is not alone in his discovery. The man is in his early forties, an aura of calm encasing his being, but a mystery twinkling in his dark eyes. Their gazes cross; a pause, and the man smiles gently, nodding a hello.

“Yeah,” Will concedes. “To stay, please.”


	3. First Sip

“Excuse me.”

Will jumps. The man with broad shoulders and perfect hair is behind him, and Will hadn’t noticed him approach, hadn’t thought there was time for him to cross the shop in only a few seconds. But here he stands, a refined, closed-lip smile on his face, not a hair out of place, offering his hand. He shakes it.

“I had not meant to frighten you.” His accent is European, and Will can’t place it. “I try to personally greet all new customers. Welcome.”

“Thanks,” Will replies awkwardly. “Um. The harpsichord. You play it really well.”

An elegant brow lifts up. “You heard my performance?”

“Just the end. But it was nice.”

They’re still grasping each other’s hands, and Will pulls away. The man hums and nods. “I thank you for the compliment. Perhaps you will allow me to make you something special in return? Off-menu and half-price.”

“No, no,” Will rushes, “I couldn’t, it’s fine. Just an iced coffee is okay-”

“Please,” he purrs, and it halts him. “I insist.”

He is on the cusp of refusing when his eye catches Garrett Jacob Hobbs in the corner, standing silently next to the harpsichord. Will swallows. “Okay. Sure.”

He smiles and dismisses Simone, who vanishes into the back to make the sandwich. He pulls a simple white apron from behind the counter and ties it around his waist, saying, “Thank you for indulging me, Mr…?”

“Graham,” he replies. “Uh, Will Graham.”

The barista shakes his hand again over the counter, palm warm and inviting. “Hannibal Lecter,” he returns.

Once Will gets past the hideous tie and atrocious pants – are they paisley and gingham? – he finds watching Hannibal mesmerizing. He rolls the sleeves of his white shirt up so they just cover his elbows, but leave his forearms exposed. His skin is incredibly smooth, and his hands skilled. Hannibal uses a rosewood tamper to press down finely ground beans, then taps one edge of the portafilter. Soon the smell of fresh, hot espresso rises into the air and Will can’t help but inhale deeply.

Hannibal steams milk and gently pours it into the circular and short mug, and when he places it before Will on the counter top it has a simple design sitting in the froth. At the same moment, Simone returns from the kitchen with a steaming panini, and Will finds the combined smells from both the coffee and the sandwich too much, and the atmosphere is so beautiful and the sunlight pouring through the windows is warm, and he’ll be _damned_ if this isn’t the hungriest he’s ever been in his whole life.

“Here you are, Will,” Hannibal extends graciously. “Please tell me if you would prefer something else. Is it to your tastes?”

A single sip and the ghost of his follower melts away, but the scariest thing is that Will hardly notices his absence at all, barely cares that the apparition is finally gone. “I like it,” he admits, and it may be the largest understatement of his life.

Judging by Hannibal’s pleased smile, Will knows he hasn’t fooled him.

He takes another sip.


	4. Black Coffee and Debussy

Silky notes of piano begin to roll from the ceiling like honey pouring from a bottle, and Hannibal pauses, eyelids fluttering shut, inhaling.

Will cannot look away.

“Simone has put on Debussy,” Hannibal notes, and blinks. He nods at Will. “A favorable musical pairing with your lunch.”

One by one, the remaining guests in the café leave through the door, and the light tinkle of a little bell that Will had not noticed before announces their departure. He wipes crumbs off of his mouth with the square napkin he has been given and swallows his mouthful of sandwich. “She’s nice, Simone. Where did you find her?”

Hannibal cleans a small dark brown spill with a white cloth as he speaks. “If you can believe it, I snatched her from the very jaws of death itself.” After seeing Will’s bewildered look he adds, “Starbucks.”

Will doesn’t quite laugh, but he nearly snorts into his drink. “Oh, dear.”

“Truly,” Hannibal insists, now grinding another portafilter of beans. “Her talents were wasted there. I could not in good conscious leave her to rot among subpar peers that cannot spell the simplest of names. Simone is a quick learner. She does well.”

“Very friendly,” Will agrees, watching him press down the grinds with the rosewood tamper, the muscles in his arm moving under the skin. “Is this your place?”

Hannibal looks up to flash him a closed-lip smile. “Do you like it?”

Words seem unfit to describe how he feels here. He tries anyway. “It’s really nice. Your clientele is – I’m sorry, what is this, anyway?”

“The drink? Most call it a wet cappuccino. They have never had authentic Italian coffee – worth a sip before you die, I guarantee. This, truly, is a latte.”

Feeling foolish, Will mumbles, “I thought it was a cappuccino.”

“If you think so, Will,” Hannibal begins, “then the customer is always right.”

It’s easy to talk to Hannibal. Unnervingly so.

“Do you have pets, Will?”

He starts. “Uh, yeah. How…?”

In his hands rests his own cup of coffee (black, Will notes), and he sips from it quietly. “Your jacket.”

He wipes down the dog hair as though it will help it vanish, and it does not. “I have…a few. I like dogs. I tend to pick up a few strays.”

Hannibal sets his cup down and looks him squarely in the eyes. “You are a compassionate man, Will Graham. What do you call them?”

His phone goes off, shattering their moment. For the duration of two rings Will is sorely tempted to end the call without picking up, but a peek of the name on the screen forces a sigh out of him. “I’m sorry – I have to take this.”

Hannibal nods. “Not at all.”

_“Will.”_

Jack sounds solemn. “This is a bit sooner than I expected to hear from you,” he responds, wincing. “I’m guessing dinner is off?”

_“I’m sorry, Will. We’re at Glen Avenue. I’d come prepared. It’s not pretty.”_

“Is it ever?” he whispers. They hang up, and Will turns back to the counter. “Duty calls,” he explains with a pained grimace. “How much do I owe you?”

He pays the low fee, bids his host adieu, and is just leaving through the door, bell jingling, when he pauses and looks back.

“Thanks for the discount,” he calls.

Hannibal Lecter doesn’t blink. “Perhaps on your next visit I can hear about your dogs.”

His next visit. He holds his breath.

“Goodbye, Will.”


	5. See No Evil

“I cut Margret Bollinger across the throat,” Will growls, and slices deeply into delicate flesh. A river of red runs from the jagged line on her neck. “I haven’t hit an artery; she is dying, but breathing.”

The young woman’s body crumples to the grass, her gasping breaths cut short by the gurgling.

“I watch her choke on her own blood, but this isn’t what I wanted for her.” His hands press against Margret’s neck, desperate to stop what he’s begun. “I try to stanch the flow, but the wound is too deep.”

She twitches one last time.

“In under a minute, she stops moving.” Kneeling in the bloody grass, he stares down into her blank eyes. “She watches me, sees me for who I am, even if it’s only in death.” Gently, tenderly, he grips her fingers, bruised and muddy from the struggle. “I cover her eyes with her hands. She cannot see me anymore.”

A fistful of grass he stuffs into her open mouth.

“She cannot speak.”

He takes the knife and cuts off both ears, gripping them tightly in his palm.

“She cannot hear.”

He rises and takes a step back toward the trash cans only a few feet from the body. “I dump the knife, covering it so it will not be found. The ears, I keep.”

He closes his eyes; inhales.

“They will only find her when I’m gone. This is my design.”

“Will,”

His eyes snap open.

Jack watches, expression guarded though heavy skepticism. “What did you learn?”

There’s a distant crack of thunder, and raindrops tickle his eyelashes. “We’re looking for someone who knew her,” he explains. “Probably lashed out, then regretted it. Dumping the knife in the trash was panic, not plan.”

“And the hands over the eyes?” Jack asks. “Grass in mouth? Missing ears?”

He thinks. “Pity.” A pause. “She will hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.”

After the rain hits, the cleanup crew has to be fast. There’s dozens of flashes from cameras, tens of agents crawling over the scene collecting evidence in small plastic bags. He only hopes the rain doesn’t ruin them. Beverly glances at him, but neither says a word. This is not an image they will soon forget.

“Will?” A strong hand stops his path to his car. Jack sighs. “I’m sorry about today. If you need a week off or so after this case, I can make it work.”

“But the open investigations-”

“Can be put on hold,” he insists. “Look; Dr. Bloom is worried for you. If you don’t take some time off she’s going to have me hung, drawn, and quartered.”

“Is this her professional opinion?” he snaps. “I’ve told you – I don’t need to be _looked_ at.”

Jack’s brow cinches. “She specifically stated it as a friend. And I was speaking as a friend as well, but now I’m speaking as your boss; _get some rest_.”

Angered, he spins on his heel and makes for the car, the soft reds and blues of police vehicles spinning in rotation.

“Will!” Jack calls after him. “You’re not crazy!”

He slams the door, sheltered from the rain, and Margret Bollinger laughs hysterically in his backseat. To his right, Hobbs only smiles. Will starts the engine.


	6. Heirloom

He wakes sometime before dawn. Vision swimming, he rubs the glaze out of his eyes and slowly sits up, glancing toward his clock. Four in the morning. _Fuck_.

 

His sheets and shirt are soaked, the same after any night, and with a grunt he strips his clothes and tosses them and all the blankets into his washer. Will stands in the shower under the stream of water, hot enough to scald his skin, and closes his eyes until it runs cold. He switches the laundry to the drier and makes himself a cup, tiptoeing around the dogs; they’re still dreaming.

 

Mug warming his hands, he glances at the clock in his room again.

 

Five-thirty.

 

Will lifts the mug to his lips, even takes a sip, but memories of harpsichord and sweet milk invade his mind, offsetting the bitter acidity of his sad, instant coffee. He can’t stomach it after that, and pours the rest into the sink. Margret giggles, whispers words he can’t make out into Hobbs’s ear, and he smiles, eyes fixed ahead.

 

He grabs a jacket, leaves food out for the dogs who are beginning to stir, and heads outside.

 

Will has no destination in mind, but with four days stuck indoors with classes canceled (courtesy of Jack Crawford), he needs air, space, peace. The Farmers Market is open for only the next few weeks before winter finally hits, and with desperate crowds trying to fit in all their local, organic shopping before it snows, he knows at least he won’t be alone.

 

There are fruit stalls, vegetables, honey, eggs, butter, syrup, furniture, art, henna, _everything_ and _anything_ Will can imagine, and a cheery buzz fills the air with conversation, laughter, bartering. It feels nice; even with his companions never more than a few yards away, he loses himself in the company of the other shoppers. He feels light. A rumble deep within his stomach shakes him, and the spicy scent of cinnamon tickles his nose. He inhales; _fuck,_ it smells amazing, and he’s glad he didn't ruin his appetite with that shitty cup of instant coffee. He looks around for the source of the smell, biting his lip in anticipation, spying instead something that gives him pause.

 

He blinks. “Hannibal?”

 

A familiar back turns to reveal a familiar face. Hannibal Lecter, inspecting two different tomatoes, smiles gently when their eyes meet. “Will Graham, was it?” he asks.

 

Will nods. “Er, yeah.”

 

Dressed in a dark knit sweater and slate grey trousers, he stands tall and proud, truly a standout from the rest of the early morning pack. It's a _really_ nice sweater. Will swallows his embarrassment and barely manages to keep from blushing; it being only their second meeting, he doesn't want to come off as creepy, but Hannibal seems, in fact, delighted.

 

“You have not come for coffee,” he notes. “I believe I was promised a detailed description of your dogs.”

 

Will scratches the back of his head. “I've been…” Busy is not the truth. “…contemplating.”

 

Hannibal nods. “Indeed? May I inquire as to the nature of your contemplation? I hope it hasn't made a second visit undesirable to you.”

 

“Oh, not at all!” Will assures, waving a hand in defiance. “No, there’s nothing wrong with your shop, it’s, um…” He pauses, “I've been thinking about work.”

 

“Troubles at the office?” Hannibal asks.

 

“I’m a teacher,” Will clarifies.

 

Hannibal’s smile is blinding. “A noble profession.”

 

“I teach as Quantico,” he continues. “Sometimes I do…consulting.”

 

The smile drops. “For the FBI?”

 

He blinks. “…Only sometimes.”

 

Hannibal holds up the two tomatoes in his hands and asks, “Do you prefer Heirloom or Roma? I confess I've come today to explore options for new menus.”

 

The change in conversation is sudden, but not unwelcome, and Will wonders if he diverged on purpose, sensed his discomfort. Will shrugs. “I’m not too sure.”

 

He hums, considering. “Heirloom it is,” he decides, and quickly pays the woman behind the stall. He turns sharply and says, “Perhaps you would accompany me today, Will? I have a few other things to purchase, and then I had planned to experiment with combinations in the hopes of choosing a new special for my business. I’m always in need of a taste-tester.”

 

His stomach growls at the thought. “Will there be coffee?” he jokes.

 

Lecter chuckles, sweeping a strand of hair neatly back into place. Will gulps. "Quid pro quo, Will. Something for something. If I receive the promised story of your dogs, and you willingly test my new menu items for me, then I will make you a cup of whatever you want, completely free of charge."

 

Out of decency he pretends to think about it, but the promise of food, coffee, and the company of Hannibal Lecter and that damn sweater is more than enough to make up his mind. "Quid pro quo," he agrees.

 

He simply beams. “I will treat you as a guest of honor,” the man vows, extending a hand in invitation.

 

Will’s heart skips a beat in his chest, and incredibly, he finds himself reaching for Hannibal's palm.


	7. Beginnings of Fondness

It’s a busy morning at Café Della Vittoria; haggard business men in freshly-pressed suits and bright-eyed women in crisp skirts stand in a long line winding around the white ash hardwood flooring and plush cream sofas. Not all the clientele are as fashionable as the interior; some are dressed in denim bottoms and flannel tops, and Will just manages to stop from sighing in relief. Today he doesn’t feel as out of place.

 

Still… He expected Hannibal to let go after they climb out of Will’s station wagon. It seems, however, Hannibal has a different idea of how long he can hold a stranger’s hand before it becomes impolite.

 

As busy a morning it is, Simone seems to have no trouble keeping the customers happy and occupied; she’s all smiles behind the counter, and when they approach as she prepares an espresso for a patron’s mocha, her face lights up even more. “Good morning, Mr. Lecter!” she calls, catches Will’s eye, and they finally part as many customers turn toward them. “Hello, there. I had a feeling you’d be back.”

 

He greets her in mumbles, and Hannibal steps behind the counter, reaching for an apron. “Will,” he begins smoothly, “Would you take the groceries into the kitchen? I will help Simone whittle down the line and be back shortly.”

 

He scoops up the brown paper bag, feels it crinkle and snap at his fingertips. His hands feel oddly cold. “Yeah. Uh. See you soon.”

 

He shoots him a dazzling closed-lip smile then turns to the next customer in line, a woman he seems to recognize, and the two begin conversing in fluid French. Will is dazed, takes a breath, and steps into the kitchen. Hannibal really doesn’t take long; Will barely has time to unload the groceries before the double doors swing open and his host arrives, sweater sleeves rolled up and dark apron shielding his trousers. “Thank you, Will. Perhaps you could do me the honor of measuring out some ingredients? The work will go much faster with a helping hand.”

 

It takes nearly fifteen minutes to acquaint himself with the kitchen. Several industrial grade refrigerators line one wall, with a walk-in freezer the size of a large pantry flush against the other. In cupboards are round barrels of flour, boxes of sugar, jars of baking soda, and baskets of bread. He references the slip of paper Hannibal has written for him as he gathers the ingredients, and the man himself is busy unearthing a large electric mixer.

 

“What are you making?” Will asks, placing his bowl of mixed flour on the island.

 

“I’ve been experimenting with breakfast,” Hannibal reveals, plugging in the mixer and retrieving several eggs from the pile of groceries. “As you can see, mornings can be quite busy here, and I’ve received requests for more menu options.”

 

“It is busy,” he agrees. “Simone really knows how to handle herself.”

 

Suddenly there’s a clean apron under his nose, and Will blinks. Hannibal offers, “May I?” He is unprepared for the steady hand on his shoulder that turns him away, and even more so for the close proximity of Hannibal’s chest against his back, sturdy arms close to his waist as he loops the apron around his hips. As he ties the cloth in place, his fingertips brush innocently against Will’s lower back.

 

He clenches his teeth to stop the shivering.

 

“Simone is a diamond in the rough,” Hannibal explains, and hot breath on the back of Will’s neck is all he can understand. “I cannot allow her raw potential to go unpolished, especially because all she requires is a proper education to become truly great.” The fastenings tightened, his hands turn Will toward him once more, only this time they linger on his shoulders, gaze brushes over his lips. “Is that not a very human reaction? To wish to polish an uncut gem?”

 

He swallows hard, pulls away. “So, what’s the next step?”

 

Hannibal beats egg whites in the heavy mixer for a long time, until they froth and foam and eventually form stiff white peaks with a glossy shine. He has Will zest a lemon, add milk, vanilla, and ricotta cheese until there are no lumps. Together they combine the wet and dry ingredients, then Will leans against the countertop and watches as Hannibal uses a red spatula to fold in the egg whites as gently as a mother would tuck a child into bed. By the time the batter is on the griddle, Will is on the verge of starvation.

 

“Tell me it’ll be ready soon,” he begs, and Hannibal chuckles, pauses, then flips.

 

“It will be ready very soon,” he promises. “These are light, tender compared to the pancakes I’m sure you’ve had the displeasure to consume previously.”

 

Will’s brow rises, and he fights a smile that grows rapidly, like an infection. “Displeasure?”

 

“Indeed,” Hannibal assures, and readies a new scoop of batter. “I make no attempt at self-flattery, but I would say this recipe is turning out _quite_ well. The ricotta is accompanied perfectly by the lemon, and the egg whites create a lovely texture. Very fine.” The first done, he presents it to Will on a small plate with a delicate fork. “But perhaps I shall let my taste-tester be the judge?”

 

Hannibal, surprisingly enough, holds opinions of his own cooking _very_ highly. The blind confidence is enough to make Will lose the battle against his smile. And frankly…

 

_He’s adorable._

 

Will takes the fork, cuts a generous piece, and lifts it to his mouth.

 

It’s the coffee after brunch, however, that blows his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those are Lemon Ricotta Pancakes. So. Tasty.


	8. Hourglass

The morning slows, and when only a trickle of patrons remain come early afternoon, Hannibal and Will move into the main room and sip at identical cups of steaming coffee. At first taste Will balks, then goes in for another.

“You seem perplexed,” his host notes, and Will can’t help his eyes roaming over the man’s relaxed but poised posture, his unwavering hands lifting a delicate cup to his lips. Will watches as he swallows, has to, but when he glances up Hannibal’s eyes are on him, a dark maroon. Will hasn’t seen eyes quite that color before.

He gestures to his own cup, breaking eye contact. “This coffee isn’t bitter at all. The flavor is surprisingly sweet, but I don’t taste sugar.”

Hannibal seems pleased; he sits a little taller, and crosses one leg over the other. “One day,” he begins, “when we are better acquainted, I will tell you my secret. Until then, I shall keep _these_ ,” he taps his lips with the tip of his finger, “sealed.”

“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead,” Will quotes.

The shine in Hannibal’s eyes takes on a boyish, fiendish delight. “Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard’s Almanack. You read recreationally, Will?”

He savors another sip of coffee and shrugs. “That’s just a product of an overzealous sixth grade history teacher. I’d like to read more. I get busy.”

“You feel as though you are out of time,” Hannibal asserts. “You are an hourglass funneling your last grains of sand, hoping someone will flip you.”

He is stunned into silence.

Hannibal leans forward then, leaving his cup on the table, and Will watches as the ripples on the surface smooth like polished wood. “You hope someone will break the glass.”

Hobbs and Bollinger are behind him, and Will cannot look away as the young woman slowly raises her hands and covers her eyes. She smiles. Will sips at his coffee. “That’s quite the assessment, Mr. Lecter.”

Hannibal retreats, the angelic smile lifting his cheeks once more. “Forgive me. I had not meant to discomfit you.” He opens his lips again to say something else, but pauses. His next words are hesitant. “I am… curious about you, Will.”

His heart beats to a strong, brisk rhythm.

“I admit I did not invite you today on mere whim alone.”

“Then why did you?” he finds himself asking, breathless.

“Perhaps I am interested in the FBI consultant, and the man who picks up strays from the rain,” Hannibal reckons. “Perhaps I am interested in Will Graham.”

It’s that moment his phone rings, and Jack’s name flashes, as heavy as a death sentence, on the screen. After a quick chat, his vacation comes to a swift end, and Will can hear Jack’s words echoing in his head, over and over again.

“I have to go.”

A steady hand flies into the air, silencing his explanation. “Say no more. I shall see you out.”

At the door to the beautiful coffee shop, Hannibal helps Will slip into his jacket, and for a moment his fingers linger on Will's shoulders before he turns around. “Thanks for the food,” he says. “I think your new menu will be great. And the coffee. It was good running into you.”

“Might I see you again, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will freezes. “Perhaps planned, this time.”

“You want to see me again?”

He nods, and Will is caught up in his maroon eyes again, the color drawing him in, captivating him. “I should like to try to break the glass that has you caught, if you’ll allow me to learn more about you.”

Will desperately fights the hot flush staining his cheeks and asks coolly, “Is it because of your interest in the FBI consultant or in Will Graham?”

There’s a flash of teeth as Hannibal offers, “Perhaps I would just love to have you for dinner.”


	9. Dust to Mud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice I finally gave the chapters names. Yay!

Will parks his car in the massive, gray parking lot at the canning factory just as it begins to rain. He treads the thin concrete path from the lot to the metal door, which gapes like a hungry, open mouth. The entire building is demanding blood. He grimaces, watching as the dust turns to mud on his way. The employees all stand outside, whispering and pointing, faces confused and horrified. He can feel eyes on him like he can feel the raindrops in his hair.

 

The yellow police tape line is set up several yards from the open metal door, and Will reaches into his jacket for his badge as he ducks underneath.

 

“Hey!” A firm hand grips his jacket and yanks him back, and Will is surprised to see a woman with hair like fire and a face dotted with dark freckles scowling at him. She is clad in a white polo with the canning company’s logo stitched into the breast pocket, and she holds a pair of dirty gloves in her free hand. “That’s a restricted area! Authorized personnel only!”

 

He withdraws his badge and shoves it under her nose. “I’m authorized,” he snaps, and her grip on his jacket loosens.

 

Jack emerges from the dark interior of the factory and spots them immediately, approaching with his brow raised. “It seems you two have met. Linda, this is Will Graham, special agent. Will, this is Linda Flowers. She discovered the body.”

 

Linda Flowers crosses her arms and glares. “ _ Kelly _ . She’s not some nameless corpse.”

 

Jack’s words are soft. “You’re right. Wait here just a few minutes longer, Miss Flowers. An officer will be by shortly to take you to the station for your official statement.”

 

Linda’s lips stretch thin, she swallows, and nods. Will knows that look; it’s what happens when your throat is too tight to speak. He ducks under the tape again and follows jack inside. In the dim lights of the factory he spots Beverly swabbing something dark off an exposed pipe. She smiles at him, and he tries to smile back.

 

He isn’t sure if it works.

 

“The station, huh?” Will murmurs as Jack turns up a flight of steps. “For a statement?”

 

“The circumstances are suspect,” he explains. “I’ve got an undercover keeping an eye on her in case she bolts. The longer a killer has to wait the more agitated she’ll get.”

 

Will shakes his head. “She didn’t do this. She knew the victim, called her by name. She has compassion for her.”

 

They loop through hallways. “You said Margret Bollinger’s killer had pity for her, that he knew her,” Jack retorts. “I’m just trying to catch all the sand you might let slip through the cracks.”

 

He sees himself, for a moment, trapped in the hourglass Hannibal described, sand pouring over his head like a waterfall, suffocating him. Jack reaches a heavy door and pauses, glancing back at Will undecidedly.

 

“Kelly Potter is ‘hear no evil’, Will. You know what that means?”

 

He pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and faces the door, dread overcoming him. “It means there’s one more victim.”


End file.
